


The Quiet Aisle

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9743408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: A tale told in reverse. Jaime takes five years to convince Brienne that The Day of the Red Goddess is the best holiday in Westeros.





	1. The Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> For the JBO Valentine's ficlet fest! Also, a multi-part fic told in reverse, which shall ALSO be for March Meet-Cute fest! Because multi-tasking!
> 
> P.S. It's now April, so...whevs.

 

**Epilogue - The Wedding**

**5th Day of the Red Goddess**

“I don’t like this. It isn’t _me._ ”

Jaime’s responding grin was sly. “I’m well aware.”

“It isn’t _you_ , either. It looks worse than it did during Tyrion’s wedding, and that was a feast for the senses in the most horrible way.” Brienne looked around the small Sept before shuddering at the memory of dripping pink gauze, odorous pink candles, and the frilly pink sleeves of her abhorrent dress on that fateful Day of the Red Goddess.

Tyrion’s first wife had terrible taste and a deep-seated streak of sentimentality in defiance of Brienne’s fondness for her.

Jaime maintained his grin and twined his fingers between hers. “I really tried to top it. See how the red and blue drapes look like a circus tent?”

Brienne stared at the surrounding swaths of fabric that seemed to encompass the Sept. The ancient grey stones became more dour from the new clashing palette. “Our family colors don’t look well together.”

Jaime craned his neck to look at the swathing. “I don’t know, it’s not that bad. Maybe in smaller doses. Red for my ancient blood and blue for your incredible eyes.”

She bumped her shoulder against his. “Don’t be foolish.”

“I’m not!” He scoffed. His eyes defied her to object as he bit his lip. Bastard. He knew that always worked.  

She forced herself to look away so she wouldn’t embarrass herself in public with some unfettered display of affection. She was about to ask the very important question that had consumed her since Jaime had brought her there, but she caught a glimpse of a strange figure standing against a stone pillar out of the corner of her eye. “Is that…? What is that, Jaime?” She squinted in the dim light.

“Our waiter, of course.” Jaime chuckled and pulled her over to the pillar.

The figure was one of those gauche, human-sized statues of a long-eared dog in a butler’s costume, front paws extended to hold a tray. On the tray were bite-size bits of crispy golden dough with toothpicks stabbing them.

The saccharine scent hit just as Brienne discerned the identity of the delicacy. She glanced at Jaime. “Why are there waffle hors d’oeuvres in this sept?”

“For the reception.” He shrugged far too casually. “They should be soggy by now, too.”

She stared at him then, baffled at this bizarre date. “Why in the world do we need soggy waffles? What reception?”

“Ours obviously, and you don’t remember?” He stared right back with a blatant intensity. “I remember. In great detail.”

She felt the blush overcome her as she did, indeed remember. Funny that he would recall such a tiny thing out of everything else that day, when Tyrion's  _second_ wedding had taken place. Decidedly less celebratory than his first. 

Jaime didn’t stop looking at her as he dropped her hand to fish a small remote from his pocket. He grinned as he clicked the button and a brash pop song filled the sacred space.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled, too. “Not this song! We hate this song.”

“Everyone hates this song.” Jaime started whistling the tune along with the words of _Do You Like Dornish Coladas._

“Everyone loves this song,” she argued.

“Exactly! _We_ don’t, but it's still our song.” He reclaimed her hand and used his thumb to stroke the inside of her wrist.

She refused to shiver. Much. Instead, she narrowed her eyes. “I think you love it.”

“Not for the same reasons.” And he was back to the lascivious twist of lip and gleam of eye. Such a predator. What had she ever gotten herself into?

She had wondered exactly the same thing when that bloody song had come on in the hotel room so long ago. Two whole years now.

“Now,” Jaime purred as he pulled her to a different pillar where a low table held a single bottle and two shot glasses. “In commemoration.”

“No!” She was vehement. Not _that_. It was too awful. Unthinkable.

“Yes.”

“No! It will burn the roofs of our mouths like last time, and we said never again!” Brienne shook her head.

“I saved it just for this! The very last bottle after the recall.” Jaime untangled his hand from hers for the second time and picked up a shot glass half full of a innocent clear liquid.

It was the stuff of nightmares. The product of Tyrion’s first divorce when he went through a phase of bitter cynicism and labeled his pet project _Red Witch Sunset Sea Liquor._

“Just a sip,” he goaded. “I’ll soothe your aching tongue the same way I did then.”

Brienne really wished she weren’t so easy to disarm. Not literally. No man could separate her from her sidearm if she didn’t wish it, but in other areas…Jaime was a master. Of course, the real problem was she allowed him to be.

She took the shot glass and downed the smallest possible sip quick as she could. The pace didn’t stop the instant grimace, shudder, and near nausea. Jaime took his sip at the same time.

“Gods, this really is the worst stuff.” He choked and wiped his lips on his sleeve.

“Your fault,” she wheezed.

“At least the pain is shared with you,” he said breathily, whether from the awful alcohol or whatever else was lurking in his eyes, she couldn’t quite tell.

Before she could prepare herself, his mouth was covering hers. Her lips burned, her tongue burned, and her chest burned but not in a concerning way.

He leaned back after biting her bottom lip. He liked to do that.

She really had to ask that question even though her heart was beating far too fast because of the kiss and because she had an inkling of the answer. “Jaime, what is this all about?”

He’d insisted that he surprise her on this Day of the Red Goddess, the most “romantic” day of the year. He had promised that this surprise would be his greatest yet. She’d truly hated the holiday, every single year, until she realized at some point that her hatred had become feigned. That was all because of Jaime.

He looked smug. “I thought there should be _some_ festivity when we got married.”

Brienne choked on whatever remnant of liquor remained lurking around her gums. She had _not_ expected that. Perhaps a bent knee, which would still shock her despite knowing Jaime too well to pretend he wouldn’t want to. “What?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He smirked like a satisfied cat. “We’re getting married.”

She glanced around. The soggy waffles were for the reception. The horrible clashing fabric displayed their “colors.” Yes, this was indeed Jaime’s intent. “Here and now,” she tried to confirm.

“Here and now. Obviously.”

“And you didn’t think to…to _ask_ before the actual event?” She really didn’t quite know how he was able to shock her after so many years, but he always found a way.

“I could have. I wanted to, often and for a long time, but we both know this is better.” He stepped close again.

“In what world is this better?”

“Yours. I would have asked, and you have taken ages to ponder the wisdom of being my wife while pretending it would be a very challenging decision despite knowing you would accept almost immediately. I’m saving us both time. Get to the good part.”

She placed one hand on his chest, to halt him and to feel his warmth against her skin. She could feel his heartbeat, too. Speeding along like the bullet train he was.

She sighed, trying to appear resigned rather than astonished, and in truth, overjoyed. “So, we’re getting married right now.”

His grin lit up his face. “Well, maybe five minutes. The septon is outside.”

“You made him wait out in the cold?”

“I gave him a coat!”

“You’re very prepared.” She rolled her eyes again.

“’Course I am. I’ve been waiting for this for four years.” He sounded deadly serious.

“You have not.”

He stared over her shoulder for a split second in contemplation. “Three years, right. What a mess that first was! All bickering and no sex!”

“I will give you two years,” she demanded.

He shook his head. “Three. It was the awful liquor. Even thought you still I insist I don't, I remember it as clearly as the taste of your lips that night.”

She nearly growled under her breath. “This is why you always win. It’s aggravating.”

“If I always won, I wouldn’t want to marry you."

She couldn’t really object to that.

“Now,” he took her hand for the third time, and she knew he would not drop it again. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Fine, but next Day of the Red Goddess, I make the plans for once.” She waited unmoving, there in the aisle that wasn’t quiet at all thanks to the blaring song playing on a loop.

He raked a heated gaze over her, toes to the crown of her head. “We’ll see. It will depend on how pregnant you are.”

“What?” she shouted in the echoing space.

 

 

 


	2. The Soggy Waffles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reverse-saga continues! And actually (SHOCKINGLY FOR QUINN), it's done! I know, I know. The remaining chapters will post every few days.

**Chapter 4 – The Soggy Waffles**

**4th Day of the Red Goddess**

 

“Northern Berry is not a flavor.”

Brienne knew her smile was crooked and showed too much teeth, though she tried to contain it. “It is a _compound_ flavor, like cherry cola.”

“Not the same at all,” Jaime insisted, holding up the small pitcher of syrup. “Cherry is a flavor, and cola is a flavor, so together they are a compound flavor. Northern Berry is singular and not a flavor.”

“It is a collective name for blackberries, bearberries, and Starkberries, and you just hate Starkberries, Jaime.” Brienne rested her elbows on the still-damp tabletop and her chin on twined fingers. She dared him to argue.

He set the syrup down hard enough to make a blob pop out and land on her hand. He eyed it. “So what if I do?”

She let the sticky goo trickle to her wrist as she watched Jaime’s face, wondering if there would ever come a time when she would no longer be surprised by his undisguised interest. After three years, it seemed unlikely.

“Happy Day of the Red Goddess,” he drawled, green eyes sparkling as he glanced at her.

He reached for her hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing the knuckle of her ring finger with his lips before dragging his tongue over the syrup on her skin.

“Jaime, stop!” she pleaded with no weight behind it, though she glanced around to see who might be looking.

“Are you sure?” He grinned as he sucked her pinky into his mouth.

“We’re in _public_ ,” she hissed as a she tried to suppress her blush.

Jaime pulled back but continued playing with her fingers as he scanned the diner. It was cheap and in disrepair, but it was the only place to find breakfast on that lonely stretch of highway from Harrenhal to Lannisport.

“There’s no one else here.” His grin grew wider.

“The waitress and…and…the fry cook.” She tucked her hair behind one ear, then remembered it would expose her still-fresh scar and quickly pulled the blonde strands loose again.

“The fry cook is frying things, and the waitress is…dusting plates or something. And stop blushing. You know what it does to me.”

She did know. There was no denying that “The waitress is staring at you.” She did _not_ know this for a fact, but it was a safe assumption. Women always stared at him. “And _dusting plates?_ Really, Jaime. Even you can’t possibly believe people _do_ that.”

“I don’t care about plates. Not when you’re blushing.” His fingers slid over the skin of her forearm, making her blush far worse. “Happy Day of the Red Goddess.”

“You said that already. Three times this morning.”

“You haven’t replied.” The pad of his index finger found the crevice of her elbow where her skin was thin and her pulse pounding.

“I did. I said, _and to you as well_.” She failed at stifling a small gasp.

“Just like a greeting card! So personal. Yet I seem to recall how much better you are at expressing _greetings_ without words.” This grin was downright lascivious. _Electric_. She had surprised even herself at the motel, but the sunlight streaming through the broken window shade had painted him in gold. He had looked decadent. How could she resist?

“Then how should I respond? With words, I mean. It’s an invented holiday to sell chocolate.”

“It’s my favorite day of the year.” He frowned and drew his brows together in exaggerated suffering. Something about his tone told her he wasn’t lying though.

She stared at him for a moment. “It really is, isn’t it? Why?”

“Reflect for a moment,” he requested in a soft tone.

What came to mind immediately, of course, was the reason they were currently in a diner in the first place, because they had left the motel as late as possible and had eaten nothing because of certain…activities that had required time and dedication. But that was today, the fourth consecutive Day of the Red Goddess she had spent with Jaime.

Last year…she blushed worse than ever when thinking of last year. That Dornish Colada song would never leave the recesses of her brain. And the year before, with Tyrion’s alcohol, and of course, the first year. When they’d met.

“I see.” She nodded, unable to meet his gaze for fear of doing something horribly inappropriate in a public diner.

“It’s not your favorite day?” He bit his lip, damn him. He _knew_ what that did to her!

“No,” she stubbornly replied. “Not when I have to be dragged to yet _another_ of your brother’s weddings and be made to wear yet another horrible dress.”

“The dress isn’t that bad this time,” he insisted. “And it’s not my fault that Tyrion is a hopeless romantic.”

“He’s not as bad as you, and it is _not_ romantic to get re-married on the same day you married your ex. It’s just…odd.” She leaned back in the booth to gain even an inch of distance from Jaime and the heat in his gaze.

“It’s Shae’s fault. She wanted the big Red Goddess Day wedding, and Tyrion never denies her.” Jaime rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep up the pretense. “It’s a problem for we Lannister menfolk.”

“Shae sounds…decisive.” Brienne was still trying to be nice despite the mounting evidence of Shae being the opposite of nice.

“Well, escorts probably have to be decisive,” Jaime mused.

Brienne glanced around even though no one could hear, whispering, “We don’t know that she was actually getting _paid_ , Jaime.”

“Yes we do. Tyrion told me. She’s an ex-hooker now, I suppose.”

“I can’t believe he went from Sansa Stark to…to a _prostitute._ ” She shook her head in sadness at the fate of her mentor’s daughter. Millions of stags in alimony merely formed a bandage over a deep wound of lost love. Brienne still believed there had been love in that relationship despite Jaime’s insistence that is was born of rebellion against controlling parents. At least Sansa seemed to be doing well with her CEO beau despite the age difference. It’s what Catelyn had wanted all along.

Jaime laughed. “He didn’t go from Sansa to Madam Escort, Brienne. There was a long line of wily _girlfriends_ as you well know. Not my cup of tea, but I’m not my brother.”

She knew both those things well indeed. She felt the blush return.

“And in that vein,” Jaime brought her hand to his lips once more, “since it has now been six months since you gave up trying to fend me off. I think we should celebrate.”

She might never quite know how she, _she_ , Brienne Tarth, ended up dating _the_ Jaime Lannister, but she actually had given up trying to comprehend it. He’d been hounding her for a year, even two if one counted Tyrion’s alcohol incident, but she wasn’t quite sure if that counted.

She swallowed thickly, determined not to be embarrassed. “How do you want to celebrate?”

His eyes lit up, and he brushed his knee along her thigh under the table. “We’ve got hours until we have to be in Lannisport. I have ideas.”

Before she could descend into pure madness and pull him across the table, a shadow crossed his face. The waitress approached, gum snapping against her teeth and cat-claw nails making marks in the containers she held.

“Sorry, we’re out of plates, but I gave you extra waffles.” The woman shrugged and swayed away in clear hopes of catching Jaime’s eye.

He was instead staring at the Styrofoam takeaway containers on the table. Thick golden waffles released sweet-smelling steam as they bathed in absolute pools of butter and Northern Berry syrup. Brienne watched hers deflate in front of her, becoming a purple sodden mess in a flash.

She met Jaime’s gaze, and they smiled together. Jaime picked up a fork and dug in despite the increasingly unappetizing aesthetic. “Mmm, tasty,” he mumbled as he stuffed a disintegrating blob between his lips.

She raised one brow.

“And soggy.” He swallowed. “Very, very soggy.”

She joined him and attempted to take a bite, but the dough wasn’t even trying to hold up anymore. He leaned closer and whispered, “Soggiest waffles I’ve ever seen.”

She leaned against her folded hands again to cover how much she was laughing. “I can’t even take a bite.”

Jaime closed the Styrofoam lids to hide their unsuccessful attempt at breakfast, and tossed a few too-large bills on the table. “Do the soggy waffles make this your favorite day now?”

“They might, Jaime. They might,” she continued to chuckle, startlingly happy to be in a terrible diner with a terrible failed breakfast as long as Jaime was there.

“What can I do to make it definite?” His licked his lip to clean a tiny dab of butter.

“Refrain from singing Dornish Coladas for the entire ride to Lannisport,” she said immediately, even though she liked it when he sang their stupid song out of key.

“I could try.” He nodded as if in deep thought. “Or…” he fixed a bright, hypnotic gaze on her, “I could finally tell you how crazy I am about you.”

She almost choked on air and shock. “What?”

That bright gaze skated over her entire face. “Well, I’m just hopeful that I might make you like this holiday as much as I do, because really, we should share the same favorite day I think.”

“What?” she repeated for lack of anything better.

He grabbed her hand and held it almost too tightly. “Look, Brienne, you know how it’s been for years now, but it doesn’t matter that I’m not good enough for you or that you will probably never believe me. I just love you, and that’s that.”

She blinked rapidly and, at a loss for any other reaction, resorted to scoffing. “So you’re just going to shock me more and more every Day of the Red Goddess?”

“You’re shocked that I love you? Really?” He knew she wasn’t. She knew he could see it in her eyes and was just waiting for her to catch up like he always did.

She swallowed. “Completely shocked, as I said.”

“I’m sure. In fact, the shock is spreading over your skin in a delicious cherry red. Or should I call it _Northern Berry_? Doesn’t matter, I want to lick it.”

“You say very shocking things in public, Jaime.” She could barely look at him, and her heart was pounding so loudly she could hear it.

“You never do. But you think them, and I see it.” He grinned.

“Then I love you very much, so how’s that for public shock!” Her voice was too loud. The fry cook leaned out his odd little window to stare at her. The waitress dropped a coffee pot.

Jaime looked like he was going to eat her instead of the waffles. “I think…we need to leave. Immediately. And I think I’m going to have to surprise you even more next year.”

“As if you could,” she sputtered.

“I accept that challenge.”

Brienne could barely process when exactly she stood or when Jaime’s arm snaked around her waist, or when they ended up in his car with her awkwardly sprawled over him in the backseat with his mouth on her neck, but she was sure with complete clarity that he would somehow succeed.

 

 


	3. The Dornish Coladas

**Chapter 3 - The Dornish Coladas**

**3rd Day of the Red Goddess**

 

 

“The ceiling has a crack in it.”

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t be snide.” She knew she was grimacing as she stared at the thin sliver the dingy stucco on the ceiling couldn’t hide.

It was like a river or a fracture in a bone. She blinked. The crack hadn’t changed. Brienne slowly brought her right hand up to her chest, her fingers grazing the crispy texture of the motel duvet. She rested her hand over her heart, palm flat against a rapid beat and over the place where _his_ hand had been. One of many places. Her skin was still sweaty.

The mattress jostled as he moved. “I’m not being snide. I’m joking. We both know you can’t tell the difference, but I still have hope you’ll catch on.”

She continued to stare at the crack as she lay on her back, on the bed. It was much easier than looking at his face. The crack seemed like a warning to her. _There’s a crack now, and no matter how much spackle you slap over it, or how many thick layers of stucco you paint over it, it’s still there and will always be there._ Said the crack.

Or she was simply going insane. That was the most logical explanation, considering…

She jolted hard enough to bump her head against the fake oak headboard. Again, but for a different reason this time. His hand had just planted itself right on her thigh, no warning, no gentle little graze to ease her into it. No, that hand decided to make itself quite at home, a thumb pressing an imprint on the outside, a pinky sweeping along like windshield wipers on the inside.

“It might take another two years. I have patience.” More circles on her thigh, his breathe closer to her neck.

"For…for what?” She felt out of breath from the tension making her body thrum.

“For you to allow yourself a sense of humor. You don’t even know when you’re funny.”

“I’m not funny.” She bit her lip in instant regret, because he would definitely mock her.

Instead, he laughed. “See, _that_ was funny, and it wouldn’t be funny if _you_ weren’t funny. But you don’t know it.”

“That makes no sense, Jaime.”

“That’s why I have to wait two years. You’ll come around.” His hand gripped her thigh harder, not enough to hurt. Quite the opposite.

She parted her lips to say something, but there were no words. What could she find to say besides comments about the state of the ceiling? She hoped it could be something casual, like, “Thanks for the...evening. Can you believe the Ravens made the playoffs?” And then she could slide into her jeans and run off. She’d have to steal his car. She’d be a felon, but the dishonor might be worth it.

She un-parted her lips, because whatever came out would certainly be closer to, “Sorry I look like a butter sculpture in this light. Can we take all this back?”

He would chastise her, tell one of his dumb jokes. She wouldn’t mind, except everything was different now. _Everything_. She hated it. It was terrifying. This wasn’t like the time last year when they’d overindulged on Tyrion’s alcohol. One drop was too much of that horror! She thanked the gods it had been recalled, even though Tyrion probably kept crates-full in his liquor dungeon.

No one was drunk now. There was no excuse for what they’d just done beyond insanity.

“Did I tell you I bailed Tyrion out again?” He slid his hand away and turned fully onto his side, curling his free arm under his head. She could see the glint of his eyes in her periphery, and she missed the feel of his skin on hers.

How could he be so at ease?

She swallowed thickly. “Um, no. What did he do now?”

Jaime chuckled. “Nothing really. Bit of a shouting match with a Night’s Watchman and too much ale. Same as usual.”

She thought for a moment and realized why. “Because of today.”

“Hmm?”

“Today. The Day of the Red Goddess?” She made an enormous mistake and turned to look at him, forgetting for a crucial second that she absolutely _should not_.

The instant she made eye contact, she felt herself turning beet red from her toes to the roots of her hair. Her breathing grew shallow, her pulse raced. His pupils dilated into black circles. He bit his lip.

“You remembered.” His voice was gravel.

He looked like a predator, and she felt like an awkward doe.

She looked away. “It’s Tyrion’s anniversary. He must be feeling very low.”

“Not more than he ever was, and trust me, he’s got _company_. You were literally the only person in Westeros who thought that thing with the Stark girl would work. See? You’re hilarious.”

“I just…though, that maybe…I just wanted them to be happy.” She crossed her arms over her chest in defiance pulling the blankets with her, though she thought she probably looked more like a mummy from Asshai.

“That’s because you’re a good person, and the rest of us are inherently terrible.”

She looked at him again, this time in mild rage. “That’s not true.”

“It’s enough that you think so,” he said, with a much softer tone.

“Stop that,” she mumbled, not looking away though.

“Why?”

“You…it confuses me.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_!” she growled.

He grinned. “You’re not confused at all.”

“Who are you to tell me whether or not I’m confused?”

“The person who knows you best.” He bit his lip again.

“That’s not…that’s beside the point.”

He started laughing, the bastard! She rolled onto her side and smacked his shoulder. “You’re terrible.”

“Ouch, and I said that, and you objected. Make up your mind, woman.”

“Only _I_ get to say that.”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her close. “Well, you do own me, so that works.”

“You’re not a slave. Nobody owns anybody.” She wrapped her strong fingers around _his_ wrist and pulled.

“I’m pretty sure the mob owns Petyr Baelish.” He pulled back.

“That’s different. Are we going to arm wrestle, Jaime? Is that how you’re going to win this?”

“You admit that I’d win?”

“No. I would win.” She yanked him hard enough that his body slammed into hers.

The tension came back with a vengeance. He stared straight at her as he flexed his pecs, right against her breasts.

The hotel room’s alarm clock blared without warning. That horrendous pop song poured into the room, the one that wasn’t old enough to be acceptably classic but certainly not at all new. It was just plain bad. The Dornish Colada song.

Jaime’s eyes lit up with glee.

“Don’t you dare!” she challenged

“I’m going to. I can’t help it.” He took a deep breath. “… _and getting caught in the rain!”_

Jaime Lannister was an impressive man in essentially every area of life. Apart from his singing voice. It was fairly shocking to her, but it was true. He could not sing to save his life.

“ _If you like making love at midnight_ …hint, Brienne, I _do_.” He winked at her.

“Shut your mouth,” she demanded while trying to stifle a smile and blush, simultaneously.

“Make me.”

“I will not.”

“ _I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face,_ that’s a good line. I like it.” He nudged her shoulder.

“It’s syrupy.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Too late. This is our song now.”

“ _We_ don’t have a song. We aren’t…you know.” She rolled onto to her back to avoid him.

“Hey,” he said with a clear chuckle, “remember when we had sex?”

As if she could ever forget. Also, it had been less than an hour ago. “No.”

“I’ll ignore that. We had sex and we have a song. Obviously we _are_ …you know.”

“We are not,” she insisted. He would grow tired of her. It would ruin their friendship. She tried to think of more reasons daytime talk shows and magazines could give her for denial.

“Then we _will be_. I’ll wear you down.”

She looked at him. “Why?”

This time, his eyes turned soft despite the smug little grin lurking at the corner of his lips.

“Happy Day of the Red Goddess,” he said.

“What?”

“I like this holiday. It’s romantic.” He stared at her with undisguised desire that made her uncomfortable in more than one way.

“It’s…it’s contrived. It’s not romantic,” she insisted with no real force.

“Huh, and here I thought that it was romantic _when we had sex_. Imagine that!” He returned his hand to her thigh and grazed his fingers higher than before.

“It…was.” She was having far too much trouble thinking…thoughts.

“I don’t know. You seem to have doubts. There’s only one real way to make sure, don’t you think?” His strong fingers stopped climbing and settled right _there_.

She hit her head for the third time. “Okay, sure.”

He loomed over her, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers. “It’s going to be fun convincing you that we’re a couple.”

She shook her head which only served to electrify her skin as it brushed his. “We’re…not.”

He stole a long, impassioned kiss then peered down at her. “Tell me that next year.”

 

 


	4. The Red Witch Sunset Sea Liquor

**Chapter 2 - The Red Witch Sunset Sea Liquor**

**2nd Day of the Red Goddess**

 

“This smells like airplane fuel.”

“I was going to suggest lighter fluid.”

“Is it made from the stinking rotting wood of an eastern swamp?” Jaime’s entire face wrinkled in disgust.

He was no less attractive. He was truthfully the most attractive man ever. Brienne didn’t feel odd thinking this because it was fact.

She sighed as she watched him sniff the offensive clear liquid for the third time. People at the launch party had already noticed her. She’d known they would, but it upset her to see that Jaime would finally understand why she hated events like this. She shouldn’t have given in to his persistent begging. As if anyone would believe he couldn’t get a real date on the Day of the Red Goddess, of all days!

He held up his shot glass, close to her face. “You first.”

“I told you, I will never drink that. I think it’s toxic.” She shook her head vehemently.

“I’m sure it’s toxic. Tyrion made it.” Jaime peered at the glass without bringing it near his lips.

“Hush,” she whispered, glancing around to see where Jaime’s brother might be lurking. The poor man was suffering. “He’s doing this because he’s sad. We shouldn’t mock it.”

Jaime set his shot glass on the tall table next to them and raised one brow. “Tyrion is doing this because our father hates it. That’s why Tyrion does everything.”

Brienne pushed her own glass further away. The stench was horrendous. “It’s the first year, Jaime. He’s going to be upset about it, not even making it to his first anniversary.”

Jaime leaned in close so nearby drunken ears couldn’t hear. “He’s had three girlfriends already. That marriage was doomed, and it was a miracle it lasted six months. By the way, I heard Sansa Stark is skiing in the Vale with some adolescent heir. She’s must be _devastated_.”

She blinked in dismay at his cavalier attitude. A broken relationship was no laughing matter. “You could try being nice about it.”

“Maybe I would if there were a point to it.” He glanced around at the party goers who had already reached the point of walking with a sway and shouting about how much they loved everyone and everything. She couldn’t see anyone public vomiting, however, so perhaps the smell was the worst thing about the liquor.

“It’s just…it’s good to acknowledge that Tyrion might be more sensitive than you think.” She looked away, because she knew he would peer at her in that calculating way that made her always uncomfortable. She had no idea why he did that.

“I think it’s _you_ who is sensitive, but that’s okay. I like that about you. You’re always transparent.”

Not always. At least not around him. He had been joking last year, when they’d met and had left that sept, but he had been right despite how much it hurt. She nodded anyway. “Being truthful is honorable.”

He laughed right at her, and she had to look at him in order to glare properly.

“So serious, Brienne! It’s a party, so let’s party.” He picked up his shot glass again.

“I hate parties.”

“Well so do I, but I had to come, and thank the gods you agreed to be my date. I couldn’t manage this zoo alone.” He nodded toward her glass in expectation.

“I’m not your date.” She reluctantly held the glass, dreading the inevitable taste of the noxious slush.

“Semantics,” he said. “Come on, let’s get this over with and then we get takeaway and go back to my place.”

She really was hungry. “Only if you promise you didn’t watch episode five without me.”

“I promise.” He held up one palm and adopted a look of pure innocence.

“You watched it!” She shoved him on the shoulder enough to slightly jostle the liquor in his glass.

“Fine, fine! Just ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”

“It ruins the cliffhanger!”

“Doesn’t matter. Now I get to watch your reaction instead. It was _controversial_.” He stared at her and grinned.

“You will watch the screen and eat your food and shut up,” she demanded. “And you will _not_ steal all my fried rice.”

“I accept the first two, but I will still your rice as always. Drink up, I’m bored here.” He held up his glass for a toast.

She clinked hers against it and brought the rim to her lips where she felt the burn of the poison just from the proximity. “This is going to be horrible.”

“I know.”

“Can I just take one sip?” she pleaded. She never drank. This could singe its way through her stomach.

“Absolutely not. I suffer, you suffer. We suffer together.” He waited until her lip touched the glass, then nodded.

She nodded back. They stared at each other as they tipped the alcohol into their mouths quick as possible.

Oh gods, the burn…the smell! The _flavor_! It was a boiling pit of tar. It was the rotting corpse of a dragon. It was the worst thing in the entire world.

She wasn’t one for dramatics, but she wrapped a hand around her throat in some desperate attempt for comfort. She gagged. Her eyes watered. She wondered if she still had a tongue.

Through the waterworks, she could see Jaime. His pupils were blown wide, his gorgeous face contorted. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it in disarray.

“Gods…what…I’m dying,” he sputtered.

“Me…too,” she managed.

She watched him lean against the tall table, clutching his stomach. “This was a bad idea.”

She nodded, but her head started to hurt.

“I need…grease. And bread. Greasy bread.” Jaime stared at her as if she could do anything about it.

She shrugged and shook her head, but that hurt, so she ended up gesturing in a wobble of awkward limbs.

Jaime waved at someone. A waiter? A man came over. “Bring greasy bread. At once.”

Whoever the man was, he seemed unfazed by Jaime’s demand. He had obviously worked with Lannisters before. “Ser, we have a lovely bruschetta with capers and anchovy aioli, or perhaps something a bit sweeter? A perfection of baked brie surrounded by Braavosi pastry and—”

“Stop talking,” Jaime commanded. “Find a loaf of bread. Put greasy things on it. Cheese. Bacon. Whatever. Bring it to me.”

“Ser, it sounds as if you’d like pizza, and we don’t—”

Jaime glared.

“Right, I will…find something.” The waiter shuffled his feet.

“Yes, you will. Thank you.”

Once the poor man darted off, Brienne scowled. “You can’t just terrorize a poor waiter like that, Jaime.”

“Why not? He’s used to it.”

“It’s not nice!”

He leaned closer over the tall table, his eyes a little unfocused. “Swear you don’t want that greasy bread, Brienne.”

She opened her mouth. She closed it. Her stomach was burning, and the idea of filling it with delicious carbohydrates was too hard to resist.

“I thought so.” He smirked. “This is just like last week when your steak was obscenely overcooked and you were going to eat it anyway. I _resolved_ the issue.”

“The restaurant was busy!”

“You deserve properly cooked steak, and without me, you would never have it.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The motion served to showcase the muscles of his arms. Well-developed muscles. Over a broad chest. Nice strong hands…long fingers…

“I’d grill it myself.” She mimicked his posture because her breath was too rapid and somehow the compression of her arms felt protective.

“You’re a terrible cook.”

“I’m a police officer, not a chef.”

“Exactly why you deserve perfect steak. Now, let’s play tic tac toe.”

She peered at him with squinted eyes. The flashing lights of the dance floor were making it hard to see his face clearly. The poison liquor probably had something to do with that, too.

“What?”

“I need to think. I’m being fogged,” he said with just a slight slur.

“Like a roach infestation?” She planted one hand on the table to stop from swaying.

“Are you calling me a pest, Brienne?”

“You do pester me frequently.”

He laughed so loudly a few party goers turned their heads. “You’re funny when you’re drunk!”

“I’m not drunk!”

“I might be. Or getting there. Strong poison.” He grinned goofily. He looked like a young boy.

A very hot young boy. But that was wrong. Very, very wrong! Not a boy!

“A hot _man_ ,” she said, resting her cheek against her palm as her elbow on the table supported her.

Jaime’s face turned gray. Weird. “Where? You never say that. Who is it?”

“Huh? What’d I say?”

“You said _a hot man_.”

“I did not,” she insisted.

“Yes, you did.”

“Did not. I’m just hot. Now. It’s hot.” She did feel flushed and probably looked like a cooked lobster by then.

He squinted at her, then closed one eye and stared, then switched in some strange game of optometry. “Huh. Maybe so.”

“What?”

“I like your hair like this,” he mumbled.

“Why?” She twisted her fingers into her unruly blonde strands. They hit her shoulders now. _Not_ because of his comment that time when he said she grow it. Funny, how they’d been friends for a whole year…

“I’m feeling pretty good now,” he said with surprise, his hands patting over his own muscular, firm, muscular chest as if trying to find a wallet.

“Yeah,” she drawled as she watched him being pretty. “Not too poisoned.”

“Let’s have more.”

“Not in a million years.”

Jaime grabbed two more shot glasses from a passing waiter’s tray. “Here, do it.”

“Okay.” She took her glass and clinked it and downed it in one gulp. “Ouch!”

“Good poison!” He slammed his glass on the table and stuck his tongue out.

It was pink and looked like fun. “Your tongue is pretty, too.”

“It tastes like a steam engine.”

“Does that make sense?” she asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

“Yes?” He leaned against the table, his elbow slipping as he struggled to catch himself.

She grabbed his arm.

“Thanks,” he said, then grabbed _her_ arm so they were giving one another strange handshakes. “You’re so strong.”

“Yeah.” The drum beat of the dance music was making it hard to hear. Or maybe that was her heartbeat.

“I feel great, but also not great.” He looked puzzled. “I think this is worse than absinthe.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, it is. You’re hot.”

“It’s a thousand degrees in here,” she grumbled as she stared at him.

“Not what I meant, but yes, it is.” He stared right back. “I might be very drunk now.”

“I think so.”

“You know what? There’s this thing I want that’s weird.” He looked deadly serious.

She laughed. “Greasy bread?”

He nodded. “Yes, but this other thing.”

She sighed, but was sort of still laughing, but was also trying to stare at him. So pretty… “Aren’t you a Lannister? You just get what you want.”

“That’s true. I think. I want to kiss you.” He abruptly plastered his hand against her cheek, his fingertips in her hair.

“You _think_ you want to kiss me? That’s dumb.” All the lights were blurring together, but his skin felt like fire. She leaned into it.

“I know I do, it’s not dumb. So do I get that because I’m a Lannister?”

She tried to shake her head but it was more like a bobblehead wobble. “No. You’re just Jaime.”

“I don’t get that? But I asked! And I know you want to kiss me. Everyone wants to kiss me.” He nodded sagely.

“I’m not everyone.” She didn’t even try to move away from his caressing hand.

“No, you’re not. You’re Brienne, so you’re the only one who matters.”

“What are you even saying?”

“No idea.”

“Okay, fine.” She bit her bottom lip and hoped her mouth didn’t taste like rotting produce.

Wait, what was she _doing_? She had just enough awareness to tense her muscles, but it was essentially pointless since she didn’t really want to stop him. He wouldn’t remember anyway. What harm would it do?

“So I get to kiss you? Excellent.”

He didn’t even wait. She wasn’t ready! He planted his smooth lips right on her mouth, and before her thick brain could catch up with her body, they were a tangle of limbs. She wouldn’t ever get to kiss him again. This would have to be _it_ , and since he wouldn’t remember, she could make it count. Gods, what if _she_ didn’t remember? She couldn’t let that happen.

She parted her lips and wound her arms around his neck. She plastered her body against his. His tongue tasted like berry syrup. This was…heated. She had a fever for sure. She’d never been drunk. Maybe that had been a mistake, because she really didn’t care about the lighting or how red her skin looked.

Her back struck a hard surface. A wall. It was cooling, and she hadn’t realized that Jaime was moving them. It let her feel his body more thoroughly. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t want to let go, but her lungs were becoming a problem.

He seemed to be in the same place. He broke the vacuum seal of their mouths and raised his head. His eyes were black. “I’m going to do that again, but I can’t breathe right now.”

“I know.”

“I really want to lick your neck.”

“Okay. You won’t remember anyway.”

He leaned fully against her and stared with blazing eyes. “Yes, I will.”

She could feel his racing pulse, the heat of his body. His arousal. “Oh.”

He bent his head and slid his tongue over the skin of her neck. He wouldn’t remember, but that was okay. She would, and then they could settle back into takeaway and binge watching. It would be okay. Hopefully.

 

 

 


	5. The Meet Cute

**Chapter 1 - The Meet Cute**

**1st Day of the Red Goddess**

 

It was absurd.

This day, this wedding, this job.

The Day of the Red Goddess was possibly the worst day of the entire year. Brienne Tarth was not a woman who enjoyed the fabrications of romance. The heart-shaped chocolates, the blood-red roses. The songs. Gods, the songs! She hated it all for reasons she did not wish to confront.

And this wedding! Poor Sansa Stark. She was such a sweet girl, so trusting and innocent. A beautiful fairy child. Brienne had been convinced, as was Sansa’s mother, that the girl had been somehow coerced into this heinous marriage with a Lannister.

Catelyn Stark hated the Lannisters. Brienne had never met one before the wedding, but she trusted Catelyn implicitly, and she had known well the Lannister reputation.

That was before. Strange, how a fully formed opinion could change, even a little, based on a look. Three looks. It had taken three looks.

Brienne sighed to herself, grateful that she didn’t have to attend the raucous reception taking place in the opulent connected hall. Or the whispered-about after party that was supposedly a secret kept from Tywin Lannister and Catelyn Stark. She was hired to work through the former, and had not been invited to the latter. Why would she be? She wasn’t Sansa’s friend. She was Catelyn’s protégée. Catelyn, who had been so kind to her, and who had pleaded with her to provide security at the wedding. Only she, Brienne, could be trusted with the safety of Sansa Stark.

So that was one absurdity. Yes, the wedding of the children of two prominent, wealthy, and blue-blooded families of Westeros was certainly a security risk, but the Lannisters had an entire squad of black-suited men with ear coms and hidden sidearms. What could Brienne do that they couldn’t? Especially in her hideous pink dress that bared her broad shoulders and hindered her movements. Catelyn had insisted. Pleaded.

Everyone was in the hall, and here she was, guarding the sept doors. In case kidnappers barged in. Ha.

Brienne strongly suspected that Catelyn’s plan was intended as some Cyvasse move against Tywin Lannister. A guard for the guards, perhaps. No matter. She sat on a stool near the archway where Sansa and Tyrion Lannister had been married. She had a clear view of the vast sept apart from some hidden corners. The thick doors and long walk to the hall made the sept almost immune to the noise of the reception and the outside world.

She had been given cake. It was lemon and red velvet. Lemon because it was Sansa’s favorite, and red velvet because the Lannisters enjoyed infusing the suggestion of blood into literally everything.

The look Tywin Lannister had projected at his younger son during the wedding had been withering enough to draw that red blood. It had been the first look, never wavering nor halting. It was a look of disgust, something Brienne was familiar with, but to an almost frightening degree. The marriage between Stark and Lannister did not have the approval of the Lannister patriarch any more than it had Catelyn’s.

The second look she had seen on Tyrion Lannister’s face as he’d made his vows. He had seemed completely delighted, gleeful. There Sansa had stood, towering over her almost-husband and glowing in the morning light, every inch a princess of old. Tyrion had looked if he’d gotten away with murder.

Brienne had watched the faces of everyone in the sept. As a handmaid to Sansa, she had an ideal position. All eyes were on the bride, with none on the awkward handmaid in the gross dress. Brienne could watch the vows and the attendees as she pleased, trying to identify potential threats, but mostly to learn. As a police officer, that’s what she did. She learned how to read people, their thoughts, their intentions. How they tried to conceal both from others.

So the third look had come as a shock to her. There were many Lannisters present, but despite the well-known genetic beauty of the entire family, apart from Tyrion apparently, no one there was more beautiful that Tyrion’s brother and the Lannister heir, Jaime. Oh, she’d seen photos. Video even, from the press. But in person…she’d held her breath for a moment. Then chastised herself. It was fact though, that he was just plain beautiful. She had been learning him for too long, but it had allowed her to see his look.

His gaze had been fixed on his brother. It was not one of joy or derision. It had been still and hard to classify, but she had recognized the posture of resignation. Jaime Lannister had not been bored or mocking, he had been simply resigned. He’d seemed to project a silent message to his brother of Really?

Under the opposition they faced, the public scrutiny, the resignation of the brother...Sansa and Tyrion must really be in love. Catelyn had to be wrong about her daughter. Why else would they marry against all odds?

Brienne stabbed her incongruous cake with a plastic fork. At the reception, there would surely be gold-plated flatware. All the money in the world, and the cake wasn’t even good.

She set the half-eaten monstrosity on another stool and stood to stretch her legs. She only had to wander for another ten minutes before she fulfilled her commitment to Catelyn and could escape.   
It was so quiet, everywhere. The damned pink dress swished around her and dragged on the polished stone floor. It seemed that the solution for dressing a very tall woman was to make the dress too long. She had to look like the evil stepsister in a children’s story.

The door that led to the hall passage opened, a grating sound to break the silence. She moved a few steps down the aisle to get a clear view, barely catching the hawk-like face of a Lannister guard peering in. The door closed. It must be a routine check as Brienne’s skillset was clearly insufficient for the criteria of Lannisters.

She caught sight of a thin shadow not far from the door. It disappeared behind a pillar. There was carpet on the floor there, all along the edges. She heard no steps. Maybe it was the shifting light from outside.

“I saw you looming at the front earlier,” said a smarmy voice.

She spun around, instantly alert while simultaneously hating that her concentration slipped enough to allow an intruder to sneak up on her.

There was Jaime Lannister, standing tall with hands in the pockets of his dark red suit. It should look ridiculous, like a greasy gambler’s uniform, but it didn’t at all. He had green eyes that were currently scanning her head to toe.

She should ask him to return to the reception. For security reasons. She took a step toward him to complete this task. The hem of her ridiculous dress caught between the toe of her right shoe and the stone.

Brienne had good balance. She really did, but no one could defeat the evil wishes of an ugly pink dress.

Down she went, in slow motion, the particles of dust floating in air dancing like pixies, the crush of stone approaching with its partners Bruise and Scrape.

She fell in mortification, against a hard surface that looked like dark blood and smelled like cedar. A good cedar, high quality. Not like a closet freshener. Was she the tree that fell in the forest and nobody heard it cry?

She breathed in the clean tree smell that had an undercurrent of something else. She could almost taste it. Crush and Bruise and Scrape never arrived, defeated by Muscular Chest.

“Gods, you’re a giant,” he said near her right ear.

Jaime Lannister. The speaker of words. The man who smelled like cedar and manly vanilla cupcakes. The man who currently had his arms wrapped around her as she braced herself against his body.

She wrenched herself free. The dress tore. She stepped back, but his hand still lingered on her left elbow.

“You all right?” he asked with a hint of humor.

She nodded.

“That’s...quite a dress.” He laughed outright. Of course he did. Who wouldn’t?

“It’s horrible,” she muttered.

“Oh, definitely. It’s obviously Sansa’s doing.”

She stood tall and glared at him with wide eyes. “It’s her favorite color.” She wanted to add, It’s not her fault that I look like a troll in it, but she stopped.

Jaime Lannister was silent. He stared at her, right at her eyes.

“What are you?” he asked in an odd tone.

She scowled. “A person.”

His eyes narrowed. “Obviously. And touchy. I mean what are you doing lurking in the sept when everyone else is trying to outdo each other telling tales of my brother’s debauchery.”

“I...I’m security.” She didn’t know why she sounded defiant. She had nothing to prove.

His brow rose. “Really? Why?”

“It’s my job. I’m a police officer.” She gritted her teeth.

“Admirable.” He nodded. “But then this isn’t your job. My father hired the security. He doesn’t...employ women. Like that.”

“Catelyn Stark hired me.” That wasn’t precisely true. There was no pay.

The Great Lannister Brow rose higher. “Really? Good gods, the moves these people make.”

She said nothing. He blinked several times while staring, as if he were sizing her up. “Starks and Lannisters loathe each other. It’s a circus in there.”

“Catelyn is my friend,” she offered in explanation. Of what, she wasn’t quite sure.

“Ah! I see. You’re a clown like the rest of us.”

“I’m no clown,” she growled.

“Calm down, woman. Not like that,” he held up his free hand, “we’re all clowns, juggling and cramming ourselves into tight spots for the amusement of the nobles.”

“That’s very cynical.” She didn’t bother chiding him for his use of woman. No point.

“So am I.” He grinned at her. “I’m cynical, I tell dumb jokes, I can’t sing, and I keep the entire family from combusting at any given moment, but that’s a small thing.”

She didn’t know what to make of Jaime Lannister. Here was a gorgeous man who had everything the world could give to any one person, and he wasn’t happy at all. That was plain. She almost pitied him, but she could also see that he was studiously trying to figure her out as he stared. It made her uncomfortable. He was too beautiful and too calculating. She knew she had to get away from this confusing man who oddly still held onto her arm.

“I should get my things.”

“You’re leaving?” He blinked. “Surely this wonderful party of one you’re holding here is sufficiently captivating.”

“It’s...fine. I should go congratulate Sansa and your brother.” She was feeling jumpy, and he still hadn’t let her go.

He laughed. It was resigned.

“You’re not happy for them?” she asked before she could stop the words.

He returned to staring at her, this time with some attitude of disbelief. “Don’t tell me you bought their love story? Really.”

“What?”

He finally took his hand away so he could cross his arms over his chest. Her elbow felt hot. “It’s contrived. Every last bit, and everyone knows it. The poor little princess who’s escaping her mother’s wonderful plan to marry her off to a crime lord old enough to be her father, and the sad little dwarf whose sole purpose in life is to flash the finger to father, literally and metaphorically. It’s a beautiful plan. Happened conveniently fast, too.”

That part was true. Four months. Brienne thought real love likely took a long time, more like four years.

“They looked happy,” she said.

“They looked satisfied,” he corrected. “They should be. They have succeeded in their goals.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, too. “I think they looked in love.”

“Do you? Interesting.”

“Why?”

He tilted his head and scanned her face. “Not sure. I just don’t believe love happens like that. Running into someone and bam, down on one knee. I think you have to really know someone.”

She nodded, surprised that he would agree. “That’s probably true for most.”

He was silent for a moment. “Want something to eat?”

She blinked. “I...I have to be…somewhere.”

“No you don’t. There, see how easy it is to rearrange things?”

“You can’t just alter my schedule with a snap of your fingers, Lannister!”

“Can and did. Besides, I know you’re lying and will just go home and microwave soup,” he spoke as if sharing a secret.

“I...” she swallowed and gave up, willing to admit the truth. “I can’t wear this. It’s awful.”

He grimaced at the dress. “That’s the worst shade of pink I’ve ever seen. Like stomach medicine. I’ll buy you something on the way to the after party, and then we can burn that dress. The food will be fabulous, I promise.”

Jaime Lannister was…strange. “No, you will not buy clothes for me, and I’m not invited to the after party.”

“Yes, you are. I just invited you. No one argues with me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffed.

“Oh, are you going to argue with me?” He stood taller and very nearly matched her height. Their eyeline was the same.

“Yes.”

“That could be fun, but don’t argue about the food. I think you want it, and I want someone to talk to.”

“You want to talk to me. Really.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I like your eyes.” He stared at them.

“What?”

“You heard. You’re not deaf.”

She scowled.

“I think you could use some humor. Want to hear a joke?”

“No.”

“Fine, fine. Let’s get out of here. I’m feeling oppressed and hungry. Did you drive?”

She glanced away. “I took the bus.”

“In that dress?” He seemed astounded.

“No! I changed here. I have my own clothes, thank you very much.”

“Good! That’s means you can change back and save time, then we’ll burn that dress somewhere and leave. I’ll drive.”

She really didn’t know exactly what was happening. “I...I don’t know...”

“Yes you do. Now pick up that hem before you fall for me again. That’ll have to wait for another Day of the Red Goddess.”

Her brows rose almost beyond their capacity.

“See how that works?” He was grinning wildly. “You argue, I find a way to tell a dumb joke anyway, you’re shocked, then I win. Easy.”

She flashed her best frown. “You’re not going to win again.”

“I will. But it’s going to be fun watching you try to stop me.” He began sauntering toward the sept doors glancing over his shoulder. “Coming?”

She frowned. Sighed. Picked up her discarded cake and tossed it into a convenient bin. “Fine. Only because I’m hungry.”

She caught up to him, and they walked side by side down the quiet aisle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you greatly to everyone who has read this weird experiment! I'm so terrible at replying to your comments, but I read every one of them on my phone when I'm at work and cubicle-life is grating on me. Feel free to give me demerits for bad behavior!
> 
> Mikki, as always, beta'd every chapter. No matter what bizarre thing I throw at her, she always figures out how to make it work!
> 
> I hope this story makes sense in its entirety :-)


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